Chuck added me to his employer-sponsored health plan at the start of 2019. In order to add me to his employer-sponsored plan, we need to verify that we are, in fact, married. To prove that fact, we need more than a wedding ring or an album of pictures. We need the official, certified marriage certificate. Easy? Well, not exactly. Read on.

We thought we had a copy in the house with our other important documents. We don’t. There may be a copy in our safe deposit box at the credit union, but we’re not venturing out in Snowstorm Destiny (local name) unless we have to brave the roads. We searched online and found the information for ordering a copy (or two) by mail. We gathered what we needed, and Chuck dropped it off in a mailbox on his way to work.

You see, friends, we were not married in the same county in which we live. We were married in the state of Wisconsin, but not exactly where we now reside. We tied the knot in a county about 35 miles north of here. If ordering by mail doesn’t work or takes too long, one of us will need to take a day off from our job to make the road trip during business hours. It would be an inconvenience (read: Royal Pain), but we could do it.

I keep thinking of those for whom this would be more difficult, even darn near impossible. We have the spare change to put gas in the minivan and head north to visit the register of deeds’ office in the county known as Packerland. We resent taking time from our jobs, but we have the option of using a paid day off for this errand. Not all working people have that option. Not all have reliable transportation, either, especially in a Wisconsin winter.

This is a pain for us. It’s a bother. The situation is awkward and potentially a waste of a personal day for one or both of us. However, we can do it. We will do it. What about those who can’t? What if we’d gotten married in another state? What if we’d moved to a location farther away or, unlikely but not impossible, to Nova Scotia, where Chuck has extended family? How do people cope with a records request like this when they don’t have the options we have?

That’s a long list of what-ifs. In our world, many people fit the what-if categories. And that’s just for health insurance. We won’t talk about voter I.D. At least I won’t bring it up today.

It was so cold —

• Schools closed for two days.
• Mail delivery stopped.
• Newspaper delivery stopped.
• Utilities company asked customers to turn their heat down so there would be enough natural gas to go around.
• Utilities company threatened to levy fines on Chuck’s workplace for using too much natural gas in keeping the plant operating!
• It was so cold that a hawk stopped in to keep warm over lunch.

Oh, yeah, people. It was that cold.

It all started when I came home from the pharmacy on Wednesday with all of Chuck’s refills but without the Claritin that helps him prevent migraines.

Thursday after school I went to Walgreen’s. I noticed several shelves full of Mucinex, our medication of choice when the flu-like viruses hit the O.K. Chorale. Yea, I thought, they have every variation imaginable. Chuck can pick out the best kind next time he’s here.

Unfortunately, there were as many or more Claritin variations, some of which required identification and promises of spinning straw into gold before actually buying the drug. I looked them all over, and I panicked. I grabbed the store brand in a small box (in case I bought the wrong dosage or type) and rushed away to check out and save my sanity.

My next stop was a local family restaurant to buy soup for supper. I pulled a quart out of the cooler, then thought, “I should get two.” But the cooler wouldn’t open again, so I gave in and checked out. Well, I waited to check out. There were three of us in line when someone finally came out to take our money. I used a gift card – used it up, in fact. I had to pull a few bucks in cash out of my wallet, too.

Soup in hand, I went out to the van and put on my gloves. Er, glove. One was missing. I dug around the minivan, looked outside under it, and hoped like crazy that I hadn’t left it at the drugstore. When I went back into the restaurant, there were two workers at the cash register. What? At least my glove was there – on the floor next to the counter.

As I left the parking lot, my hearing aid battery on the right went dead. Beep-beep-beep-beep! And of course, I can’t dig in my purse for a new battery and replace it. I drove home on one ear, so to speak.

All this – at least I did one thing right. I got a drugstore rewards card for our family. Now we can actually get the bargain prices posted on the shelves when I bring Chuck back to pick out his favorite Mucinex and Claritin.

A favorite memory from teaching 6th grade – more than ten years later, I still remember this class and this day.

The entire school was bouncing. I expected the building itself to go boing, boing, boing any time, with the amount of pre-holiday energy inside it. One of our specialists commented, “Ms. M. has the ‘too-cool-for-school’ class this year, and you have the energetic one.” She was right. My class, full of really nice kids from wonderful parents, has turned into the elementary equivalent of Animal Planet. Since tranquilizer darts are frowned upon in public schools (I’m KIDDING, I’m kidding!), I had to resort to creative drama to bring them to attention.
My class, as a whole, had been quiet exactly twice the previous day.
The questions of the day revolved around Christmas and Santa. All. Day. Long. “Is Santa real?” “How many reindeer does Santa have?” “Is Santa Claus real?” “How did all this Santa stuff start, anyway?” “Is Santa real?”
They were 6th graders, ages eleven and twelve. They were old enough to know the truth, but did they? I couldn’t take a chance on destroying someone’s innocence and having their parents hit the roof. So I gave them my stock answer: it depends on who you ask. Well, that didn’t last long.
During my graduate program, I took a class in storytelling from a professional storyteller. I relied on those skills to get the students’ attention. When they asked me how many reindeer there were, I stopped, put on my hmmm, there’s a story in here somewhere pose, and waited for quiet. Amazingly, quiet descended almost immediately.
“How many reindeer? Well, it depends on who you ask. If you ask Clement C. Moore, he’d have said Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen.” They were almost nodding along with me. Some were counting on their fingers. “Now of course you recall the most famous reindeer of all.”
“Rudolph!” they chimed in.
“And Rudolph makes nine. But there’s a tenth reindeer, too. Do you know her name?”
One highly gifted child knew. “Olive!!!”
Yes, Olive the other reindeer… you know, the one who “…used to laugh and call him names.”
And that was just math class.
The “Is Santa real?” question wouldn’t die. They finally cornered me during Classroom Guidance on my “It depends on who you ask” with the statement “We’re asking you.“
Thank goodness for the Internet.
I found a copy of Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, told them the story, and read them the editorial. For those few moments, they were spellbound.

That year my class left me exhausted and happy every single day. They wore me out with their energy, and they energized me with their enthusiasm. And every year around this time, I remember the way they listened and absorbed my answer to their question. Yes, young ones, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see.

Wishing you a wonderful holiday with family and friends and your own generous spirit of Santa.